Woon made a low, frantic noise. He kissed her harder and his hands pushed under her blouse, seeking the bare skin of her stomach and back. Their breaths became ragged. She tugged at his belt, unbuckling it and freeing his shirt.
With a jerk, Woon caught her hand and held it still, pulling his face back and staring at her with mingled lust and bewilderment, his chest rising and falling as he fought for control. His aura churned as she stared at him wide-eyed like a bird caught mid-flight.
“Why?” he managed to say. “Why now?” Shae couldn’t tell if it was a question he expected her to answer. Woon turned his face away and shook his head as if he’d taken a blow to the skull and was trying to clear spots from his vision. “Gods, why, after all this time?”
Shae wanted to seize him, to kiss him again, to drag him back into heedless passion, but he was backing away, fastening his belt and tucking in his shirt, unable to meet her eyes. She was stunned by how wounded she felt. “You were my chief of staff,” she said. “We had a professional relationship. And . . .” She thought back on Maro with a queasy stab of remorse. “And we were with other people.”
“Are,” Woon corrected her. “Are with other people. I’m married.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, rubbing out the dimple. Shae had seen him do the same thing when they were sitting in her office, discussing some thorny business issue, and the familiar gesture was suddenly disconcerting to see, here in her house, with both of their faces flushed and clothes askew. She was so accustomed to Woon being her stolid and unflappable aide that the past few minutes seemed as if they couldn’t really have happened. But looking at his deep-set eyes and firm mouth, his broad chest and long arms, she felt an odd wonder that it hadn’t happened earlier.
“I should go,” he said, this time with conviction.
Numb fear swirled into a cold ball in the bottom of Shae’s stomach. She’d ruined their friendship, lost his respect and affection. She was terrible with men, she decided, truly the worst.
Wordlessly, she dug through the pocket of her jacket for his car keys and handed them over. When their fingers met, the ache of longing and confusion running through Woon’s jade aura swept into her Perception, charging the momentary touch in a way that seemed wildly out of proportion considering the threshold they had crossed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered miserably. “I shouldn’t have—”
Woon cut her off with a violent shake of his head. “Don’t,” he said. He picked up the umbrella by the door without looking at her. His shoulders were bowed. “Good night, Shae-jen,” he said, trying and failing to sound normal as he opened the door.
“Good night. Drive safely.” She tried desperately to think of something to say to mend the situation before he was gone, but came up with nothing.
She stood by the window and watched the headlights of Woon’s car come on. After they receded down the driveway and were lost to sight beyond the gates of the family estate, Shae dragged a blanket over her shoulders and sat in silence, drinking the rest of the tea, now bitterly oversteeped and cold.
CHAPTER
7
A New Friend
The Clanless Future Movement met twice a week in the Little Persimmon lounge. A year and a half ago, when Bero had first climbed the narrow staircase to the dim second-floor room, he’d found only three men playing cards. Tonight, roughly thirty people were clustered at the bar and around the small tables, drinking brandy and smoking, passing around pamphlets printed on thin gray newsprint paper.
Outside, the ever-present street noise of Janloon rose from a murmur to a torrent as people got off work and spilled eagerly into a warm spring evening, but the Little Persimmon’s few windows remained purposefully closed. The hanging red lamps over the black bar and small dance floor shed a hazy and claustrophobic glow over cautious faces. The daring attack on the Double Double casino four months ago had attracted prospective revolutionaries, but it had also made it more dangerous to gather. The No Peak clan had not managed to find the perpetrators, but it had energetically shaken down every known criminal outfit in its territories and spread the word that it would reward anyone who led them to the culprits. The offer was great enough that Bero was tempted to turn in Guriho, Otonyo, and Tadino himself, but they would likely rat him out in return before they were killed.
Bero made his way to the cushioned red benches along the wall and sat down between Tadino and a young woman wearing a pink scarf. He placed the backpack he carried on the ground between his feet, careful not to let its contents clang against the floor. Tadino nudged him with a bony elbow and whispered, “You brought the stuff? We’re gonna go out after this and fuck some shit up, right?”